Comes the War

by Ed Ruggero

  Harkins pressed the bell at number eleven, and when he didn’t hear any ringing inside, he knocked. A moment later a woman in a blue dress opened the door.

  “Good evening,” she said.

  “Mrs. Ludington?” Harkins asked, referring to Wickman’s note. “I’m Lieutenant Harkins. I’ve been told I have a room here.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. The new Yank. Do come in.”

  Mrs. Ludington was in her early thirties, Harkins figured, dark hair pulled back tightly, bright eyes that picked up her smile, which looked genuine. If she was upset about playing landlord to an American, she hid it well.

  “Tell me your name again,” she said.

  “Harkins.”

  “Got a first name, love?”

  “Eddie. Eddie Harkins.”

  “An Irish American, then. The last fellow had a Greek name. So many nationalities in your American army. London has become quite colorful these last few years.”

  Harkins wasn’t sure what she meant by colorful, since the gray weather and the piled-up rubble and even the ashen faces of Londoners all shared the same hue.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  “Oh, please don’t call me ‘ma’am,’” Ludington said, smiling. “I’m not that much older than you and, besides, that’s what one calls the Queen. Call me Beverly.”

  “Chat with the Queen a lot, do you?” Harkins asked. “Beverly.”

  “Aren’t you the wit,” she said, smiling.

  They were in a tiny foyer, so narrow that Harkins had to hold his duffel behind, rather than beside his leg.

  “This way, then,” she said. When she turned Harkins saw that her left arm below the elbow was missing. The back of her dress had been mended, maybe taken in. A whole nation on a forced diet.

  A door on the second-floor landing was open, and Harkins got a glimpse of bookshelves, stuffed beyond capacity with volumes and papers. There were piles of books and magazines on the floor, and a lone wingback chair, a floor lamp beside.

  “You’re a reader,” Harkins said.

  She turned on the stairway, right hand on the wall for balance.

  “Yes, a librarian, too, though not all of those books are mine. I’m storing a number of them for a neighbor whose house was badly damaged.”

  “I saw where a few houses on your street got knocked down,” Harkins said.

  “All that happened in one night. September tenth, 1940.”

  Harkins didn’t know what to say. Folks back in Philadelphia were upset about gasoline rationing, which meant no weekend drives to Atlantic City.

  On the third floor, Beverly opened the door to a narrow room. The single window framed a view of rooftops and chimneys while a set of bunk beds took up most of the space. The bottom bunk was made with a GI blanket, the top rack held a mattress and a pile of his roommate’s uniforms.

  “You’ll be in here with Lieutenant Wronecki,” she said. “Polish fellow, with the RAF. Lovely manners. Not around all that much these last few weeks.”

  Harkins thought about Sinnott’s comment about the upcoming Big Show. All these rented flats would be empty soon enough.

  “Is there a shower?” Harkins asked, self-conscious of his odor.

  “Oh, I’m afraid not, love. Shared bath on the first floor has a tub and running water.”

  “Okay, that’ll be fine. Thank you.”

  She smiled at him and turned back down the stairs. Harkins wondered if there was a Mr. Ludington.

  He stacked Lieutenant Wronecki’s gear neatly on the bottom bunk, then emptied his duffel onto the mattress. The sheets at the foot of the bed were folded neatly, but were the color of weak coffee. One pillow had a bloodstain on the corner.

  Harkins took a few minutes to arrange his uniforms, hanging a few on a hook on the back of the thin door. He stripped to his T-shirt, trousers, and socks, threw his small towel over his shoulder, and opened his shaving kit. There was a sliver of soap he’d been nursing for nearly a month.

  Behind the stairs on the first floor he found a water closet just bigger than the toilet bowl. The next room was nearly filled by a small bathtub. Someone had painted a line on the inside. On the wall beside was a printed handbill that said THE EIGHTH ARMY CROSSED THE DESERT ON A PINT OF WATER A DAY PER MAN: DO YOUR BIT.

  “Having a bit of a drought.”

  Harkins hadn’t heard Beverly come up behind him.

  “Is that what the line’s for?” Harkins asked. “It’s a fill line?”

  “Exactly,” she said. “They say the King gets by on one shallow bath a week.”

  “Well,” Harkins said, “it hasn’t been a week since my last bath, but I did have a guy vomit on me this morning, so I was hoping to get cleaned up.”

  “I’m sure we can make an exception,” Beverly said. “In you go.”

  She went back down the hallway and Harkins closed the door and turned on the tap. The water wasn’t as cold as it had been in his last shower, at a transit camp in Scotland, but it was cold. Probably no water heaters in these old houses. He stripped and stepped in, lowering himself like a baseball catcher. He had just scooped some water onto his face and hair when Beverly opened the door and came in with a bucket.

  “Here you go, then. I’d been heating this up for my own bath, but I’ll have time later on.”

  Harkins covered himself with his hands and watched as she lifted the heavy bucket with a strong right arm and expertly tipped it into the tub. Not a drop spilled on the floor.

  “Be right back,” she said. “Got another on the gas.”

  The water that sloshed around Harkins’ feet wasn’t hot, but it was warm. He sat on the edge of the tub and draped his towel over his midsection.

  Beverly was back in less than a minute, hauling an even larger bucket. When she’d emptied it into the tub, she looked at Harkins.

  “Sorry if I embarrassed you,” she said.

  “Uh, startled more than embarrassed,” Harkins managed.

  “I was married. Had three brothers. I’m probably not as bashful as your average English girl.”

  “I appreciate the hot water,” Harkins said.

  “Right. Enjoy your bath, Lieutenant.”

  5

  20 April 1944

  1800 hours

  Eddie Harkins managed just forty-five minutes of sleep between his lukewarm bath and Lowell reappearing at his new quarters, as he’d instructed. On the five-mile ride to the military police barracks he fell sound asleep in the back of the staff car.

  “We’re here, sir,” Lowell said, waking him.

  The jail was in a converted warehouse that squatted on an entire city block; the building did not have a single window. Inside, the duty sergeant sat at an ancient table, a small lamp beside him throwing a weak circle of light. He handed Harkins a clipboard with a visitors’ sign-in sheet. One column was marked AGENCY, and all of the visitors that day had noted that they were from various military police commands, the Judge Advocate General, or CID. Harkins left the space blank next to his name.

  The sergeant took Harkins to the cell block, which was somehow even darker and more depressing. They passed a small handwritten sign that said Officer Country: Luxury Suites Available! Only one cell was occupied, and in it, Major Frederick Cushing lay on a narrow cot, fully dressed, with one arm across his face, one foot on the floor.

  The jailer on duty unlocked the cell and dragged in a wooden folding chair, the back stenciled with the crossed pistols of the Military Police Corps. Harkins dragged the seat closer to Cushing, who had not stirred. There was a bucket beside the bunk, no sign of vomit in it.

  “Major Cushing,” Harkins tried.

  The man reeked of alcohol processed as sweat, a stench that took Harkins back to his parents’ living room, Sunday mornings with his Uncle Jimmy passed out on the couch, sometimes on the floor. Mary Theresa, Harkins’ mother, showed her displeasure with her youngest brother by refusing to speak to him, though she always made him breakfast and didn’t kick him out.

&
nbsp; Harkins reached over and shook the pilot’s shoulder. Cushing let his arm fall away from his face and opened one eye.

  “You bring me here?” he asked.

  “This morning,” Harkins said. “Do you remember what happened?”

  Cushing squeezed his eye shut. “Nuh.”

  Still drunk, Harkins thought. He looked at his watch. It had been six and a half hours since he’d dragged Cushing from the pub.

  “Do you remember who you were with last night?”

  “Helen.”

  “Where did you leave Helen?” Harkins asked. “When did you see her last?”

  “Dun remember,” Cushing mumbled. “You’n MP?”

  “Sort of,” Harkins said. “Why were you meeting her?”

  Cushing put his arm back over his face, which muffled what he said next.

  “What was that?” Harkins asked.

  “Could still lose this war.”

  That wasn’t an answer Harkins was expecting, but he wrote it in his notebook.

  “Did Helen Batcheller tell you that?” Harkins asked.

  When Cushing didn’t answer, Harkins asked, “What was the paper you had with you? That bunch of typewritten sheets with the names of German cities. Was that a target list?”

  Cushing turned his head toward Harkins, a bit more alert. “Where is it?”

  “Did you write that paper?” Harkins asked. “Did Batcheller write it?”

  “D’you have it?” Cushing asked again, slurring. “Got to get that to Ike. To Ike’s staff.”

  “Why do you have to get it to Ike’s staff? Is that what you were trying to do?”

  “Could still lose,” Cushing said. “After all this bullshit, could still lose.”

  Harkins watched for a moment, and when he was pretty sure Cushing had passed out again, he stood and kicked the bottom of the drunk’s foot.

  “Why do you want that report to get to Ike?”

  Cushing looked at him, as if trying to remember how Harkins had appeared.

  “Isolate the beachhead,” the pilot muttered. “Only way to get ashore. Got to have the assets. No use bombing deep. Damn production numbers are going up.”

  The outburst seemed to exhaust the pilot. Harkins used the pause to scribble the jumble of phrases in his notebook.

  Cushing had closed his eyes again.

  “Did you kill Helen Batcheller?” Harkins asked.

  It took him a good twenty seconds, but Cushing struggled to an upright sitting position. “What’d you say?”

  “Did you kill Helen Batcheller?” Harkins repeated, watching Cushing’s reaction. It was hard to tell, since the man was still drunk, but Harkins thought he looked surprised.

  “Wait … Helen is dead?” Cushing asked. “Someone killed her?”

  When Harkins didn’t answer, Cushing leaned over the bucket and gagged up a string of clear bile.

  Harkins sat quietly for a while, elbows on his knees. Finally, Cushing shook his head. “No,” he said. “I didn’t kill her.”

  “What was in that report, Major?” Harkins asked. “Is that what got her killed?”

  Cushing said nothing, but shook his head. Harkins had just decided he’d have to return in another few hours, maybe the next day, when Cushing, his chin nearly on his chest, said, “Russians.”

  “What?” Harkins asked. “What about the Russians?”

  Cushing fell back onto the cot, banging his head on the top rail.

  “Ouch,” he said, rubbing his scalp with one hand. Then, “It’s where she got the information, the data.”

  The pilot drifted away again. Harkins wrote “source: Russians?” in his notebook, underlined the second word and the troublesome question mark. He needed to keep the investigation moving, needed details and evidence, but he was being stonewalled by a common drunk.

  Harkins brought the chair out when he left the cell, asked the MP on duty to lock up behind him. As he walked, he looked at the nonsensical phrases scrawled in his notebook, plotting his next move, how he would spend his time while Cushing dried out a bit more.

  “Probably not questioning Ike,” he said.

  * * *

  Lowell was outside the gate waiting for him. She’d been leaning on the fender, but snapped to attention when Harkins came out of the building, gave him a sharp salute.

  Harkins, whose salutes usually looked like a casual wave, tried to bring a bit more of the parade ground when he returned the gesture.

  “Any luck, sir?” she asked.

  “Not much,” Harkins said. “He’s still drunk, far as I can tell. Or a damn good actor. We’re going to have to come back after he’s sobered up some more.”

  “What were you reading in your notebook there, sir?” Lowell asked. She actually leaned forward to get a look.

  “You mind, Lowell?” Harkins said, pressing the pages to his chest.

  “Oh,” she said, clearly embarrassed. “Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. I get excited sometimes and overstep my bounds. It’s just that I’m eager to help any way I can. It won’t happen again, sir. I promise.”

  She looked so clearly upset that Harkins felt bad about snapping at her.

  “Never mind, I’m just an ornery SOB when I’m tired, that’s all.”

  Harkins reached for the rear door handle but stopped when another staff car pulled up behind. Major Sinnott got out of one side, and a captain sporting the crushed-cap style of the Army Air Forces got out of the other. Harkins and Lowell saluted.

  “Did you talk to our suspect?” Sinnott asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Harkins said. “He’s still drunk, I think, so I was going to let him sit for a while, come back later.”

  “Did you learn anything new?” the captain asked. He wore the insignia of the Judge Advocate General Corps. A lawyer. No wings above his breast pocket, so he was not actually a pilot; he just wore his hat like one.

  Harkins looked at the lawyer, then at Sinnott; he didn’t respond to the question.

  “This is Captain Gefner,” Sinnott said. “He’s from Eighth Air Force, where Cushing is assigned, and he’ll be drawing up the charge sheet.”

  “Is that right?” Harkins said. He directed his comment at Gefner, but he was angry with Sinnott, who should be working to keep interference away until Harkins had a chance to conduct at least a cursory investigation.

  “What are you planning to put on this charge sheet?” Harkins asked Gefner.

  “I don’t like your tone, Lieutenant,” Gefner said.

  Lowell was standing next to the car, listening. “Take a walk,” Harkins told her.

  When Lowell moved away, Harkins turned back to the lawyer. Sinnott wore a silly grin, which made Harkins think the major had already been celebrating happy hour someplace.

  “Captain Gefner,” Harkins said. “My name’s Harkins, and until somebody from CID shows up—and they don’t seem to be in any hurry—I’m the one investigating what looks like a murder. When it’s time to call in the lawyers, I’ll fucking let you know.”

  “All right, gentlemen,” Sinnott said. Then, to Harkins, “What do you have so far?”

  “Cushing said he was with Helen Batcheller last night, but he doesn’t remember anything about the end of the night, doesn’t remember leaving with her or how he got back to the pub.”

  “The guy is a lying sack of shit,” Gefner said. “I wouldn’t believe anything he has to say.”

  “Based on his reaction to the news, I believe he didn’t know Batcheller was dead.”

  “I thought you said he was still drunk,” Sinnott said.

  “He’s a little more coherent, but I wouldn’t let him drive my car,” Harkins said.

  “What else did you learn?” Gefner asked.

  Harkins looked at the lawyer. He was about thirty, Harkins guessed, with dark hair and a thick neck. A little spot of blood dotted his shirt collar, like he’d cut himself shaving.

  “Who told you Cushing was here?” Harkins asked.

  “When one of our officers winds up in th
e drunk tank, the command gets notified,” Gefner said.

  Harkins looked at Sinnott, who was still grinning but said nothing.

  “Where did Cushing work?” Harkins asked the lawyer. “Is he on flight status?”

  “Nobody is going to let that drunk touch the controls of an aircraft again,” Gefner said. He stuck his index finger in the collar of his shirt, which was too tight.

  “So this isn’t the first time you’ve run across him?” Harkins asked. “He’s been in trouble before?”

  “He’s attracted some attention from the command. Negative attention.”

  “So what were you planning on charging him with?” Harkins asked.

  “He was the last one seen with the victim, right?” Gefner said. “And he admitted to you that he was with her in the pub. How much else do you need?”

  “A motive would be nice,” Harkins said. “A weapon. Some forensic evidence. A witness who saw them together outside the pub. Shall I go on?”

  “Batcheller’s boss said the report you found on Cushing looked like her work,” Sinnott said, “though he didn’t know she was working on it. It’s classified, and Cushing should not have had it.”

  “What’s the report about?” Harkins asked.

  “Are you deaf, Lieutenant?” Gefner said. “He just said it was classified.”

  Harkins took a deep breath, counted backward from ten. Another calming technique suggested by his brother Patrick, the priest. This one didn’t work, either.

  “Let me rephrase the question, counselor,” Harkins said. “So this report was enough to get somebody killed?”

  “Sorry, Harkins,” Sinnott said. “Can’t tell you. Maybe after we upgrade your security clearance.”

  “I want to search his room,” Harkins said. “Where was he staying?”

  “I already have someone packing up his things,” Gefner said. “His commander will take charge of his gear.”

  “Now you’re the one who looks suspicious.”

  Gefner made a noise that sounded like tsk-tsk, then reached into a leather case he’d been holding at his side and pulled out a clutch of papers, three or four typewritten pages.

  “We’re going to charge him with the murder and with mishandling classified materials,” Gefner said. He offered the papers to Harkins, who didn’t look at them.